


one more kiss?

by whizzercandoit (sorrycas)



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Cheating, Gay, M/M, Secret Relationship, ambiguous references to sex, blowjob, it's spicy but not pwp, pre falsettos, precanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 14:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11556855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrycas/pseuds/whizzercandoit
Summary: Whizzer is Marvin's boyfriend. Before that, Whizzer was Marvin's... something else.





	one more kiss?

A man laughs loudly -- too loud, too awkward, at an ambiguous joke and it happens to be right into Whizzer’s ear. Whizzer turns, and in the brief flashes of headlights around the vague mechanical noises of cars and the bite of the cold, he sees a man, pelvis slightly positioned forward, hands on his hips, shoulders up in a very  _macho man_ kind of ordeal. He tosses a beer can towards a garbage bin and misses badly, laughs again, more forced this time, and seems to radiate “high school jock” and “sports references.”

 

He might as well have “OVERCOMPENSATING” on a hot pink neon sign over his head.

 

Whizzer feels his face shift into indistinct pleasantness, his legs move to close the distance between him and this man, the warm fuzziness from the empty glass he leaves with the other ones on the dumpster lid of the alley.

 

“Hello,” Whizzer says. The man’s friends leave immediately upon Whizzer’s arrival, smelling an opportunity for more beer and yelling about sports inside the bar. Whizzer feels his face lift from a demure smile to something more predatory. 

 

“Hey,” the man says, and squints. It’s dark. The alcohol on this man’s breath alone is practically another drink.

 

_ He’s got a hot dad thing going on_, Whizzer thinks. And Whizzer’s always been reckless and too indulgent of a destructive streak he has going.

 

“Have you ever had a blow job?” Whizzer says, cocking a hip. Another car passes, like light shining on the blatant way he’s speaking to this stranger. The man splutters.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me,” scoffs Whizzer, and the man’s eyes widen comically. Whizzer tuts impatiently. “What kind of idiot -- ”

 

“I’m married,” the man says loudly, “to a woman.”

 

“Alright,” says Whizzer skeptically.

 

“And I love her very much,” says the man, almost as an afterthought.

 

“Well, if you’re interested,” says Whizzer, drawing out his words slowly and ignoring the man’s rambling -- something about  _ wife_ and  _ child _ and other inane domestic shit, “I’ll be in the men’s room for the next ten minutes. If you’re  _ really _ not interested, consider it forgotten.” Whizzer leers at the man, stepping too close. “You’re hot, but I’m not going to waste my time on you if you’re not…  _ interested_.”

 

Whizzer turns and leaves and can feel the burn of the man’s gaze on his back.

 

Whizzer probably only has twenty seconds of quiet silence in the dingy men’s room before the bathroom door slams open.

 

“Well,” says Whizzer with a cocky smile. He’s shoved against the wall, practically thrown by the roughness of the man’s clumsy, alcohol-fumbled push. Whizzer laughs emotionlessly in response, and caresses the man’s sweaty red face with one hand like he’s about to kiss him, and he jerks away. The tile of the bathroom wall is cold against his back and the man moves violently closer, almost too close. A half-remembered fear pounds against Whizzer’s ribcage, fear of disgust and aggression and black eyes and bloody noses --

 

“You got me,” the man says breathlessly. He glares at Whizzer, accusatory and curious, from underneath hair that must have been neatly styled before sweat and a night on the town undid it. “I’m -- I’m interested.” He shifts awkwardly.  _ What now? _ is left unsaid, hanging in the air and around the man’s hunched shoulders. Whizzer lets him marinate in his discomfort for a little bit before he smiles, self-confident and familiar with the procedure.

 

“You practically radiate pathetic closet case,” laughs Whizzer, pushing the man into a stall.

 

“Wait,” the man says as Whizzer grabs at his belt buckle, half-angry and half-horny, “before you do this, what’s your name?”

 

“Why does it matter?” Whizzer says coldly. He’s reminded of why he doesn’t fuck around with these old closet cases anymore. He yanks the man’s pants down.

 

“I’m Marvin,” the man says as Whizzer guides the man’s -- Marvin’s -- hands to his shoulders and sinks to his knees.

 

“Well, Marvin,” Whizzer says to the man’s cock, “you can call me Whizzer.” And he takes him in his mouth.

 

_This_ , Whizzer thinks, _is the kind of mark I’m allowed to leave. A mistake that leads to a crisis as a result of a self-indulgence with someone anonymous he won’t remember_. He feels a sense of importance when Marvin grabs and pulls at his hair, a haughty sense of justified superiority when Marvin groans helplessly, a rush of pleasure in his own groin when Marvin’s hips thrust thoughtlessly forward.

 

Whizzer rises when Marvin finally comes, wipes at his mouth, and dries his hand on Marvin’s shirt.

 

“Well, that was fun,” Whizzer says courteously, clapping a hand on Marvin’s shoulder while Marvin wheezes at Whizzer with wide eyes. “Bye bye now.”

 

Unceremoniously, Whizzer leaves into the night. The cold biting air is refreshing this time on his warm skin, and the passing cars are a source of welcome light. His fingers itch for a camera and Whizzer’s moved on from this moment in his life.

 

Except he hasn’t.

 

It’s not like Whizzer intends to see this Marvin guy again, if ever. It’s just Marvin sees Whizzer the next day -- far too soon, as Whizzer was planning to see him again _never_ \-- and  _ very _ clearly remembers him.

 

“Hey!” Marvin belts out as Whizzer crosses the street on his way home from work. Whizzer cringes and walks faster -- that voice is familiar, although it’s not raspy with desire or slurring from the socially acceptable abuse of alcohol --

 

“Hey, wait up!” yells Marvin again, managing to be even louder, before an old lady gives Whizzer and Marvin an alarmed look, and Whizzer notices people staring and freezes. Well, he lives here, so he can’t have  _ everyone _ around this area hate him. He forces his expression into something approaching polite and turns to face Marvin.

 

“Hey, buddy,” says Whizzer. The tautness of the careful expression on his face is already beginning to ache. “Long time no see!”

 

“Can we talk privately?” says Marvin, slightly breathless with the light jog he had to catch up with Whizzer, and Whizzer’s cock twitches in his pants at the sudden reminder of the night before.

 

“Sure!” says Whizzer, fake warmness glowing, and begins walking faster, away from his apartment. He doesn’t need this Marvin guy knowing where he fucking lives. Jesus Christ. Marvin jogs to catch up again.

 

“Please slow down,” Marvin whines, “what the hell is your rush?”

 

“Maybe,” Whizzer hisses through clenched teeth, “not making a  _ fucking _ scene in my neighborhood. I can’t afford to get fucking evicted again.” Whizzer picks a door and walks through it, Marvin close behind -- it’s a dark coffee shop that’s questionably lit. Marvin’s face contorts and reddens. 

 

“Well, maybe, if you didn’t -- didn’t -- “ he’s spluttering again, “ _you know_ \-- in the bathroom, then -- “

 

Whizzer laughs brazenly. Marvin looks taken aback and is surprised into silence. 

 

“A cappuccino please, extra hot,” Whizzer says to a passing busboy, and Marvin seems to take out his wallet on automatic. The busboy looks at Marvin in panic, before Whizzer says, “Just a black coffee for him.” The busboy leaves very quickly and somehow the money appears and disappears without Whizzer making a move for his wallet and the coffee is set before them. All the while, Marvin is still talking about wife, children, and the “abnormality that occurred in the bathroom.” Whizzer watches the steam rise from his coffee and wishes for more film for his personal camera. He doesn’t actually like his coffee extra hot, he just thinks the steam is pretty, and he can talk while he waits for it to cool down.

 

“Are you listening to me?” spits Marvin after some time. 

 

“No,” says Whizzer bluntly. He lifts his eyes from his untouched coffee to Marvin’s face. He’s managed to approach a more magenta color in his face and neck, and developed a sweaty sheen to accompany it. Marvin’s eyes are almost bugging out in shock that’s starting to morph into anger -- clearly Marvin thought whatever he had just said was very important. Whizzer cuts to the chase, sensing another one of Marvin’s loud, yelling fits and trying to head it off. “You seemed to enjoy yourself. I know  _ I _ certainly did. I didn’t sign up to participate in your gay crisis, though.” 

 

“So, what do you do? Whore around, ruin people’s lives, move on without a thought?”

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Whizzer says, a bite of sarcasm sharp in his voice, “and, besides, my lifestyle is none of your business -- ”

 

“It _wasn’t_ ,” snaps Marvin, “until you got me wrapped me up in it -- ”

 

“You’re  _ hardly _ an important piece of my life,” Whizzer points out coldly. Thank God, though, that suddenly Marvin’s decided to be a dick in an inside voice. He takes a long drink out of his coffee, and it’s still hot enough to burn his tongue and make his eyes water. Marvin is shaking. Whizzer hides any nervousness with another long draw of his coffee until he realizes Marvin is giggling uncontrollably.

 

“Oh my God,” says Marvin, “how did I get here?”

 

“I pegged you as a closet case and propositioned you,” says Whizzer, unable to hide a smirk. He’s feeling a little condescending, and he likes it. Whizzer raises his cup to his lips, but not before Marvin sees and sneers half-heartedly.

 

“Fuck you, Winston,” Marvin says, taking a sip of his own coffee. He gags. “Is this just black coffee? No cream or sugar? Who drinks this shit?”

 

“It’s _Whizzer_ ,” Whizzer corrects, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

 

“Oh my _God_ ,” Marvin repeats. He’s either about to start crying or laughing again, and Whizzer fingers twitch unexpectedly for want of a camera and film.

 

After Marvin seems to come to terms with his newfound queer identity, they stumble back to Whizzer’s apartment, inappropriately caffeinated for this time of night, and uncomfortably sober for this kind of fooling around. Whizzer shoves Marvin inside the door quickly before the neighbors can see, or worse, stop them to make small talk, and begins frantically setting down his equipment and pieces of his work uniform after the door’s been closed. Whizzer’s apartment smells faintly of gas and old, cheap takeout, is too dimly lit because there’s only one lamp, and is too cold because the insulation is shit and he doesn’t have a heater. A soft pang of self-consciousness echoes in the back of his head before he reminds himself he doesn’t care what Marvin thinks and that Marvin is a…  _ two_-off. He turns and sees Marvin shuffling self-consciously in the dark.

 

“Do we… kiss?” says Marvin uncertainly. The yellow light glints off of his teeth when he talks, and off of his lips when they’re slick with saliva after he’s licked them. Whizzer chuckles, grabs at his waist, then his hand, before settling on one of his wrists, and leads Marvin to the bedroom. 

 

“Do we… fuck?” says Whizzer lewdly, mocking Marvin’s earlier vulnerable question. Marvin’s silhouette seems to stiffen and even in the dark, Whizzer can see Marvin’s jaw set and his face grow stony.

 

“Fuck you,” says Marvin, anger seeping into his voice without volume. 

 

“That’s what I’m getting at,” Whizzer says sweetly, pulling Marvin’s belt out of the loops. Marvin looks off into a distant corner of Whizzer’s bedroom, as if he’s trying not to acknowledge what’s happening. If Marvin’s face wasn’t so stony from all the jabbing Whizzer’s been doing, Whizzer thinks Marvin might actually look a little ashamed.

 

“You’re a prick,” Marvin says, less heatedly because Whizzer’s groping him through Marvin’s pants, humming appreciatively. His breath catches a little at the end of his sentence, and if Whizzer wasn’t so close, he probably would have missed it.

 

“So are you,” says Whizzer carelessly. Marvin’s eyes finally fall on Whizzer’s face, then his lips, and the more sadistic side of Whizzer waits until Marvin starts to lean in more -- Marvin’s intention is clear. Whizzer dips his head and begins kissing at Marvin’s neck. Marvin’s hand is familiar in Whizzer’s hair as Whizzer grazes warm skin with his teeth. Whizzer walks backwards toward the bed, turns them around, and pushes Marvin down gently. It’s almost funny that he bounces.

 

“Don’t leave a mark,” says Marvin belatedly. Whizzer’s sure that he hasn’t yet, but if purple blooms on Marvin’s skin tomorrow, Whizzer won’t care. He might leave one out of sheer spite. Whizzer offers a hum of vague affirmation before climbing up to straddle Marvin’s hips and unbutton his shirt.

 

“This is awful,” Whizzer says when he pulls out the shirt from under Marvin’s back. At Marvin’s look of hurt, Whizzer takes pity. “I mean your taste in clothing.” He waves the olive green polyester, ill-fitting and practically screeching “off-the-rack.” He flings it over his shoulder.

 

Whizzer starts unbuttoning his own shirt and he feels Marvin’s eyes on him, feels how Marvin’s chest heaving shifts his entire body under Whizzer’s own. Whizzer slides off the cotton off of his shoulders onto the floor, and Marvin sits up and raises a hand to Whizzer’s chest reverently, stroking his palm aimlessly simply for the opportunity to touch. It’s relatively awkward, had it not been for the awed way Marvin’s mouth is half-open and how, without seeming to realize, Marvin seems to express non-verbally “you’re the first man I’ve been with” in the way he holds his breath for a moment. 

 

Marvin’s leaning in, and Whizzer tilts his head, before finally deciding he’ll let Marvin kiss him. He almost meets Marvin’s lips -- they graze past Whizzer’s chastely, warm, wet, and chapped -- before Marvin’s ducked past Whizzer and nipped him on the ear.

 

“Ow!”

 

Marvin’s laughing, and Whizzer pushes him down on the bed, unbuttoning Marvin’s pants and pushing them down his thighs. Marvin kicks them off. Whizzer spits in his hand and wraps it around Marvin’s cock, pumping up and down ruthlessly.

 

“That’s disgusting,” Marvin says breathlessly. His hands come up to hold Whizzer’s shoulders. Whizzer bends down to leave open-mouthed kisses on Marvin’s neck. The position is awkward and Whizzer’s back hurts, but he’s sucking hard where Marvin’s neck meets his shoulders, and Marvin groans somewhere deep in his throat. It’s worth it when Whizzer pulls away and he can still make out the beginnings of a reddish purple blossoming on Marvin’s skin.

 

“What’s disgusting?” Whizzer remembers to ask, breathless and distracted.

 

“You spit into your hand,” says Marvin weakly. He’s close already -- his thighs are tensing up, his breath is trembling. Whizzer lets go, and Marvin sighs into the crease of his elbow.

 

“You’re worried about spit on your dick?” Whizzer asks in disbelief. “You know that, you know, when I gave you a blow job, my _mouth_ , which has a lot of _spit_ , was around your -- ”

 

“Please stop,” Marvin says. His face is hot with embarrassment. 

 

“Make me,” says Whizzer. Marvin hooks a tentative hand into the waistband of Whizzer’s pants.

 

They sweat and fumble in the dark. It would be sweeter if Marvin would stop swearing, stop being impatient, if Whizzer cared more about Marvin or smiled more. It is unnecessarily rough and the satisfaction at the end is almost obligated.

 

Whizzer’s legs are tangled in the blankets, and now that he’s no longer distracted, he’s reminded of how rough his bedsheets are. If he wasn’t sleepy from sex then maybe Whizzer would remember to be self-conscious. Marvin and Whizzer don’t touch as they pant, lying facing the ceiling. 

 

“That was one way to warm up,” says Whizzer carelessly, drowsiness making his words slurred and slow, and Marvin laughs. It’s giddy and warm with the rush of his first sober experience with a man, and Whizzer feels a smile creeping onto his face, and is thankful for the dark. He feels a touch on his shoulder -- he knows it is vulnerable, hopeful, out of place. Maybe that’s why Whizzer hesitates, just for a moment, before he remembers himself.

 

“What are you doing?” says Whizzer, suddenly awake. It’s too curt, too rough, perfectly delivered. Marvin yanks his hand away so abruptly in a way that pretty much announces that the gentle touch was clearly not an accident.

 

“Nothing,” says Marvin, and he sits up. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and starts pulling on his socks. (Of all the articles of clothing, who puts on their socks first? Whizzer doesn’t say anything, but his lips press together as he watches Marvin’s silhouette hastily get dressed, the line of Marvin’s shoulders tense and his hair still sticking up.) “I have to get home before my wife worries.”

 

“Right,” Whizzer coughs. He rolls over and faces away from Marvin. “Feel free to let yourself out.”

 

Marvin pauses for a moment, and the air of vulnerability returns and Whizzer does  _ not  _ understand why Marvin keeps putting himself in this position. Whizzer waits expectantly as Marvin breathes quietly in the dark, suddenly so still.

 

“When can I see you again?” Marvin asks. Whizzer wants to laugh, but he doesn’t.

 

“I don’t know. You know where I live. I’ll see you when I see you,” Whizzer says curtly, yanking the blanket up to his chin. Marvin doesn’t move, even after Whizzer closes his eyes. He’s starting to drift in and out of sleep. “Your wife is waiting, Marv,” reminds Whizzer callously. He feels himself finally settle into sleep when the door closes quietly and Marvin’s uneasy, measured breaths are no longer suffocating the sounds of traffic outside.

 

Marvin comes over every Friday night. Whizzer keeps letting him in, and the sex keeps getting better. Marvin lingers sometimes, and Whizzer lets him. 

 

Whizzer’s letting out someone he’s slept with earlier, laughing and sharing one last kiss. Marvin’s standing outside, at 9 PM sharp like usual. Whizzer opens the door wider for Marvin absentmindedly, watching the man’s ass -- Aaron or something -- as he leaves.

 

“Have you tried being more -- ?” starts Marvin angrily.

 

“More what?” snaps Whizzer, mirroring Marvin’s anger instinctively.

 

“Discreet?” 

 

Whizzer laughs. “I never agreed to be -- what, your boyfriend? I’m not waiting around like some fucking lapdog -- ”

 

“You’re just so -- ”

 

“So _what_?” Whizzer says angrily. 

 

“Flamboyant!” Marvin finishes, pointing a finger accusingly.

 

“So you’re allowed to be married with a kid, and have sex with me on the side, but I’m not allowed to see or sleep with other people because  _ why_? Because they’re  _ men_? I’m not ashamed of who I am, Marvin!”

 

Marvin shoves Whizzer. Whizzer shoves back. Maybe Whizzer’s hit a nerve -- he was aiming for one. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse than when Marvin carelessly picks a fight over his insecurities.

 

“You should leave,” says Whizzer coldly. Marvin grabs Whizzer by the wrist and pulls Whizzer into a kiss that’s dirty and kind of slobbery with too much teeth. They sleep together instead. 

 

“You can’t keep blaming me for your liking men the rest of your life, Marv,” Whizzer says into Marvin’s shoulder. Whizzer sounds tired, and his words are whispered and wet into sweaty skin. “We’ve been sleeping together for a month. I’m not going to keep dealing with this.”

 

“I’m sorry,” says Marvin in a rare moment of vulnerability. It is silent until Whizzer starts snoring.

 

It’s an accident when it happens. It’s not on purpose, and Whizzer doesn’t really understand when or how or why it does.

 

It’s not that Whizzer stops sleeping with other people -- because he hasn’t, and it’s the cause of many fights -- he just keeps coming back to Marvin, finding himself caring about Marvin’s opinion a little too much, doing things to earn Marvin’s approval and soft smiles a little too often. 

 

When Marvin is snoring, facedown and warm in Whizzer’s bed, Whizzer pretends they live together, not married or anything, but happy and peaceful, and he watches the rise and fall of Marvin’s body until he falls asleep. Then Marvin will jerk awake a little past midnight, mutter something about apologizing to his wife for another late night and missing tucking his son into bed again, and Whizzer will feel the cold trickle of shame and betrayal that’s misplaced and embarrassing and he’ll pretend to sleep through the frantic shuffle of clothing being hurriedly shoved on and the door slamming. Sometimes he’ll snap something insensitive that makes Marvin bristle, even in the dark. 

 

He’ll pretend it doesn’t sting when Marvin talks about doing things for his wife for their wedding anniversary or Valentine’s day. He’ll pretend it doesn’t feel shitty that he keeps letting Marvin in even though they can’t stop fighting about Whizzer’s lifestyle and Whizzer can’t stop snapping at Marvin about petty shit because he can’t and won’t talk about how Marvin keeps acting the family man but expects Whizzer to put in his full for a man’s who’s not completely there for him. And Whizzer might be doing that anyways.

 

“You made dinner?”

 

Marvin’s voice is cautious, tentative. Whizzer’s made some pretentious French shit that looked pretty in the cookbook from the library. Marvin looks politely at the steamed fish, but it’s clear that he doesn’t understand it.

 

“Yeah,” says Whizzer. He smiles, feels how it’s too stiff. “You don’t have to eat it, I can save it for lunch tomorrow.”

 

“No, no,” says Marvin, taking a small helping on the paper plates Whizzer has in his cupboards. He takes a bite and chews for too long, then swallows hard. “It’s good,” says Marvin politely. 

 

“I’ll be waiting in bed,” says Whizzer, and Whizzer hears the fridge open and shut and the shuffle of clothes being cast off as he saunters to the door. Marvin’s familiar hands wrap around Whizzer’s waist before Whizzer’s made it to the bed.

 

This time when Marvin leaves, Whizzer is half-asleep. Marvin is quiet and dresses slowly.

 

“One more kiss?” Whizzer asks. His voice is too soft to be able to tell for sure if Marvin missed Whizzer’s asking, or if Marvin’s ignored him.

 

The air of vulnerability returns, and Whizzer does  _ not _ understand why he keeps putting himself in this position. He bites his lip and closes his eyes.

 

Maybe it’s when Whizzer’s far too asleep to fully realize when Marvin’s come back to leave a sweet, soft goodbye peck on the lips. Or maybe he’s dreamed it.

 

Maybe Whizzer will never know for sure.


End file.
